


Built My Life Around You

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: But dw Qui-Gon is here with healing hugs, Disordered Eating, Force Ghost Qui-Gon Jinn, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi Has PTSD, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Old Ben Kenobi, Suicidal Thoughts, THIS IS SO DARK FOR A FIC BASED ON A WINNIE THE POOH QUOTE, Tatooine (Star Wars), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Well Middle Aged Ben Kenobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: "The first time Qui-Gon Jinn appears in his kitchen, Obi-Wan’s overriding emotion isn’t fear, or shock, or even love. It’s simply bafflement. He hadn’t even been attempting to communicate with him. Not, of course, for lack of trying."After years of failed attempts, Obi-Wan finally reunites with his beloved master, entirely by accident.Based on kurtssingh's wonderful Christopher Robin inspired comic strip, where Qui-Gon says the beautiful "I don't see any cracks - a few wrinkles, maybe" line to a very tired Obi-Wan.
Relationships: (if you squint) - Relationship, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 236
Collections: QuiObi Stories





	Built My Life Around You

The first time Qui-Gon Jinn appears in his kitchen, Obi-Wan’s overriding emotion isn’t fear, or shock, or even love. It’s simply bafflement. He hadn’t even been attempting to communicate with him. Not, of course, for lack of trying. 

Over the last two years, Obi-Wan had done his fair share of rituals, desperately clinging to Yoda’s final lessons. With enough practice and focus, he should have been able to communicate with his old master, but nothing had worked. Yoda’s instructions, like all of Yoda’s instructions, had been vague but Obi-Wan had settled into his solitude and prayed with all he had left. 

When sitting meditations had failed, he’d taken long treks around the desert, blistering his fair skin red and raw. He’d tried chanting and singing, and even dancing around by the light of the moons – no wonder locals called him Crazy Old Ben. He’d strayed away from the Code’s strict sobriety rules, smoking spice and chugging pints of Tatooine Sunset until his vision blurred and his stomach heaved. When that achieved even less, he found his brain slipping back into the desperation of Zigoola and the terrible serenity of opening wounds and breaking his own bones. He’d nearly died after trying to fast for a week, only surviving because Beru has stumbled across his prone body stretched out on the sand and had forced water and weak broth into him until he could walk again. 

Nothing helped. Nothing changed. 

Eventually, he had to give up. The incident with Beru had shown how fragile his body had become – there had been a time where weeks without sleep or food were just his reality. But now his fight had shifted from warfare to staying alive on the hellscape known as Tatooine. Because he had something to fight for – a tiny golden-haired boy who had only just started to walk. He dare not die, even as the voice in his head chanted that very request, because who else would protect Luke? 

It was only two weeks into his recovery that he realised that Yoda’s training might have been a neatly disguised ruse to keep him from suicide. 

Luckily, he found other ways of coping. He helped the few people he could, discreetly purchasing extra foodstuff for struggling families and fixing broken machinery, all under the shade of night. On the very rare occasions he let himself visit Mos Eisiely, he heard whispers of a brùnaidh haunting the planet, performing chores for a bowl of milk. He didn’t turn down the offerings when left for him – he couldn’t afford to – but he returned the utensils cleaner than their owners had ever seen them. If ever a person left credits, he would leave them somewhere prominent but safe. His service could not be bought. 

He lived to visit Luke. Every day he would climb to a high outcrop just peeking over the Lars farm, and watch as Luke toddled about, sometimes hiding behind Beru’s skirts when visitors came. Whenever a Hutt henchmen would come hassling Owen, Ben’s hands would itch for his lightsaber but he turned his twitchy fingers to wood-carving. A lifetime ago, Qui-Gon had shown him how to carve little wooden animals to amuse street children, and though his creations were never quite as neat or pretty, Luke always delighted in finding them on Shmi’s grave. A gift from the Force, Beru had called them, a smile on her tired face as she had scoured the horizon for him. But by then he was long gone, curled up in his cabin and sleeping soundly for the first time in months. 

Most of all, he wrote. He’d managed to trade his last spare robe for seven packets of flimsiplast, which he had bound himself in bantha hide to form journals. Whenever the sandstorms railed, or the days scorched, or when he simply couldn’t drag himself out of the nest he called a bed, he would grab a journal and one of the pencils he’d swapped a gallon of water for, and he would write. He was sure half of it was illegible nonsense, but it filled him with purpose to write out the Code he’d given his life to. About halfway through his first book, he’d switched from writing pointlessly to addressing his work to Luke, and he strained every muscle to get the words accurate. Many a lonely night had been spent sobbing because some principle or legend had slipped from his brain, never to be remembered by those who came after. But whenever his heart grew too bleak, Obi-Wan found himself recounting his adventures with Qui-Gon and Anakin and Ahsoka, keeping the memories of them fresh in his no-doubt decaying mind. The thought of their smiles, their laughter and their giddy hearts eased him more than any meditation ever could. 

In fact, he had been halfway through his favourite adventure with Qui-Gon – the time he, Qui-Gon and Satine had outfoxed an entire spy-ring through a single game of sabaac – when he glanced up to see the man himself standing in his kitchen, his hands hovering towards the kettle as if he intended to start brewing. 

He knew he should have been frightened by the intruder, should have grabbed his saber or a rock or anything to use as a weapon to push the stranger out of his home. It wasn’t Qui-Gon; it couldn’t be. Qui-Gon was ash in the wind of Naboo, probably not even that anymore. He wasn’t drifting towards him, that infuriatingly serene smile on his face. 

He’d forgotten how much he’d adored that smile. Charming and cheeky, the veteran of a thousand savoured jokes, and well-placed bets, and fond glances. He realised that, even with the baking Tatooine sun at his back, he’d never been truly warm without it. 

Still, he couldn’t take the vision too seriously; after all, Qui-Gon didn’t quite look like himself. The biggest indication was the slight blue fuzz that surrounded him, like a particularly perfect hologram. He seemed to shimmer and flicker as he stepped closer, and his robes made no noise as they trailed along the ground. 

Tentatively, he raises a hand and lightly presses against Qui-Gon’s middle. He expects for his fingers to go straight through, but there’s a change as he touches the other man. He’s not solid, but he’s not empty either; it feels like pushing against water, or through a forcefield. 

Qui-Gon is there, and he’s not there, and he’s smiling so softly and Obi-Wan just can’t breathe. 

“I’ve cracked.” He whispers to himself, hanging his head a little. If this really was Qui-Gon, then he would undoubtedly be angry. Not only did Obi-Wan let him die, too stupid and too weak to heal his injury, but he had failed the only thing Qui-Gon had requested. Anakin had Fallen, Obi-Wan had failed. He’d somehow broken the Chosen One, despite Qui-Gon’s faith in him. And if it wasn’t – well, then he’d officially lost his mind. “I’ve totally cracked.” 

“Oh, I don’t see any cracks.” Qui-Gon’s voice rumbles out, soft and low and steeped in good humour. He raises his hand and strokes along the white that now curls through Obi-Wan’s hair, and his fingers dance around the edge of his eyes, before coming to rest cupping his cheek. “A few wrinkles, maybe.” 

Obi-Wan can feel him, can feel the calluses of his master’s palms against his face, feather-soft but there. Before he can blink, his eyes are filling with hot, heavy tears which spill down his cheeks as he clutches to what feels like an arm. 

He pitches forward and his head comes to rest on Qui-Gon’s chest. There is no heartbeat for him to breathe along with, but the Force sings as Qui-Gon wraps him up in his first hug in forever. 

And finally, finally, Obi-Wan is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so this work was completely inspired by kurtssingh's beautiful comic strip which you can view here at the link below; it's a lot more light-hearted than my writing so please check it out as a balm to the sadness I just wrote!
> 
> https://kurtssingh.tumblr.com/post/614629292854345729/do-not-lose-hope-trust-the-force
> 
> Though there's a lot of sadness in this work, please know if you're feeling at all like this that there is help for you and you are not alone <3 Take care of yourselves, and make sure you're eating, drinking water, taking any meds you might need, and taking walks and showers when you can - they really do work wonders. Even if all you can do is brush your teeth, or clean your face with a baby wipe, it makes all the difference and I am proud of you <3 
> 
> As Kurtssingh put so beautifully: "Don't lose hope, Trust in the Force" and have a lovely rest of your day/night! <3


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